Okay, so this is Exactly What It Says On The Tin. It's a bunch of random little stories that I write for fun that usually go nowhere and are written in less than an hour. They don't all have anything to do with Warriors or any fandom for that matter; it's usually just me being self-deprecating. (It was put here despite not being WW fanfiction because I don't think this is art. It's bad art.)

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Prompt: Finch and "Finch" (May) got handcuffed together and lost the key.(Note that it's basically me talking to me from an alternate universe and both of us are aware of our bad writing. It's also purposely derailed in just one line.)

I stared at the hinged metal loop that roughly encircled my scarred right wrist, tracing the chain to and from the familiar left hand attached to the other end. The fingers were long and bony, nails blackened with dirt. Knuckles were oddly relaxed, tensing every so often as the fingers tapped and twitched. The whole hand was very still aside from the sharp taps against wood, just like mine were.

A minute passed. Tick, tick, tick, went the clock. Time was flying by and I was doing nothing. The silence between us was unbearable. Maybe it was a contest to see who cracked first. Maybe it was a fever dream from food poisoning. Either way, I was still handcuffed to myself.

Finally, I broke the silence. "So, the keys?" It was sharp, curt, and to the point. Hopefully enough to snap "me" out of the damned silence.

I -- no, wait, this person wasn’t really me, she was "May" -- looked up from where she was observing her fingers, a half-grin showing teeth. "Pff, wondered when you'd speak," she said, head tilted and eyes gazing up through her glasses with bored curiosity. "The keys? No clue where the hell they went. Somewhere in the back of my schizophrenic mind, probably."

"Schizophrenic?" I raised an eyebrow. I was pretty sure I wasn’t schizophrenic. If she was actually me, she also shouldn’t have any mental disease. She was also acting... pretty calm for someone talking to "herself". Then again, I was as well. Maybe you got used to this stuff after muttering random thoughts to yourself in the bathroom a load of times.

"You're me, I'm you," she recited smoothly. Okay, so she had the same phrases I did. "It’s pretty much the same as those bathroom talks, except that you’re not my reflection, we're both tangible, and we're somehow handcuffed together." She paused for a moment, glancing off to the wall. "You know, this is like a badly-written fanfic."

"Nope, it's wonderfully written; you sound and act exactly like me when I talk to myself."

"Exactly. Nobody else has ever heard it when I talked to you or myself, so to anyone else I would be characterized as painfully shy and quiet. Not talking to myself like a mental person, and most certainly not talking this curtly and loudly. Speaking of which, it’s kinda hurting my throat," May said, raising her hand to scratch at her throat for a second. "Oh, and I’d use freakishly clean language. Do I sound like I have a clean mouth?"

"...No, you don’t. We really don’t. So, this is a horrible fanfic written by us because nobody else would write this horribly."

"Yep, and it’s gotten very derailed from the original prompt. If God is real, He’d better help us before we are sucked into a world of pain. That always happens when I start writing creatively."

"…mandarin."

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Old Story from March that I dug up from Untold Tales Forums. It was a very good premise, but I just got bored with it. Maybe the inspiration will return.

Fawnheart - small fawn tabby tomcat with white fur on his underside and amber eyes, the eponymous "kit-killer".

Fawnheart always spoke of his beliefs with vehemence, even if they contradicted everyone else’s. He knew that the rest of the Clan considered him weak, not being able to run long and fast like most other cats in his Clan, not destined to be a medicine cat, and too small to be a good fighter. After so many moons of envious thoughts, he finally decided that he would make himself useful. The Clan didn't value weak kits, it seemed, so why not kill off the runts? It would make the remaining kits stronger and better warriors for the Clan, right? However, the leader, Heatherstar, severely rebuffed this idea. She claimed that kits were valuable no matter their size.

Instead of putting the thought down like Heatherstar said to, Fawnheart became obsessed with it. He was convinced that his size was the only thing keeping him from achieving greatness, and so he decided that no kit should have to go through what he did. He started to kill runts in the Clan, urging them out of the camp and bringing them to a fox’s den, where they were mauled to death. For so long, everyone thought that it was just a fox killing the kits, never suspecting that the ginger devil was being played by a cat.

Fawnheart thought that the runts would get a better life in death, where they wouldn’t be judged like him. It was a good cause, keeping the runts from being ridiculed, but he went around it in the worst way possible. Eventually, the Clan leader found out what Fawnheart had been doing and exiled him, but not before Fawnheart killed his own sister’s son, Cherrykit. He pretended to fight the fox off after it killed the kit, but his sister found out. She always found out what he did, in the end.

Goldenpelt always knew that her brother was cunning. She knew that he tried to make up for his lack of strength with venomous trickery and spiteful words. The Clan valued his craftiness, they really did, but the other cats never openly showed it, and he wouldn’t have known it, so consumed with yearning as he was. Fawnheart always detested weakness, going to almost insane lengths in training sessions to win, not seeming to care if the opponent was a younger apprentice or his mentor. He just couldn’t stand losing to anyone.

When the kits began to disappear, Goldenpelt and everyone else noticed that the only kits gone were runts, but she thought that the fox just wanted the easiest meals it could find. When Cherrykit disappeared, she was distraught, crying the whole night away. However, at the break of dawn, she put it all together. The fox followed Fawnheart's scent trail. Fawnheart had killed his own nephew, her son. Goldenpelt knew what she would do the moment she found out about the crime. Her brother would pay most dearly for this murder.

Other Characters

Stoatclaw - dark brown tomcat with a white belly and green eyes.

A member of the "Exiler Patrol," which was first formed to chase off or kill traitors to the Warrior Code, Stoatclaw was one of the four cats assigned to exile Fawnheart.

Ravenstorm - black she-cat with copper eyes.

A member of the "Exiler Patrol," which was first formed to chase off or kill traitors to the Warrior Code, Ravenstorm was one of the four cats assigned to exile Fawnheart.

Falconfang - large blue-grey tabby tomcat with blue eyes.

A member of the "Exiler Patrol," which was first formed to chase off or kill traitors to the Warrior Code, Falconfang was one of the four cats assigned to exile Fawnheart.

Day 1

I ran across the fields of MoorClan territory, my sides heaving with fatigue as I pushed myself on towards the Thunderpath. The yowls of my enraged Clanmates followed me, getting nearer by the second. "They can’t catch me, they can’t," I hissed under my breath, trying to reassure myself even as my eyes stung with tears of frustration and anger. How could they betray me like this? I did what I had to... why didn't they see that?

Just ahead, I saw the winding Thunderpath unfold, strangely silent and marked with vivid orange webs, brighter than a fox's pelt. It was bizarre, but I ignored it; getting away from the territory was so much more important. I pushed myself harder, running as fast as I could towards the hard, night-black river. The moment my pads touched the sun-heated rock, a dozen furious yowls split the air behind me as the patrol spilled over the ridge of rock; Goldenpelt, Stoatclaw, Ravenstorm, and Falconfang raced towards me, fangs and claws bared. The Exiler Patrol had arrived. I froze for a split second, my gaze snapping to Goldenpelt as a sudden, fierce shock of emotions hit me: fear, guilt, resentment, betrayal.

It was only a moment, but it gave her just enough time to rake her claws down my muzzle, warm blood running into my mouth. Tearing away with a pained hiss, I yowled, "Goldenpelt, think for once! I'm your brother! I did what I had to do!"

"I am thinking, Fawnheart, and you're no brother of mine!" she hissed. "Whatever brother I had was gone the moment he killed my kit!" And then she leaped, fangs bared as she barreled into me, burying her teeth into my left ear.

Shrieking in pain, I twisted and shook my head, clawing at my sister but only managing to dig her teeth deeper into my flesh. The other cats had reached me by this time, and they launched towards me, eyes hardened with anger. The pain in my ear was reaching an agonizing level, and I could barely defend myself as my Clanmates swarmed me, snarling and clawing at my pelt.

Suddenly, the sensation of tearing flesh in my ear was gone, replaced by a stabbing pain as blood ran down my face. Snapping my head up, I saw the other half of my ear in Goldenpelt's jaws, shredded almost beyond recognition; my littermate was staring at my torn ear in shock. Guilt flashed across her face for a second, but then she was blocked out as I was pulled back into battle by the slash of swift claws across my left hind leg.

Twisting around, I retaliated, clawing at the black she-cat’s belly, but Falconfang pulled me off with a vicious snap at my face, forcing me back. At that moment, Stoatclaw leaped towards me, landing on my back and causing my clawed leg to buckle beneath me. I lunged at him furiously, thrashing in a desperate attempt to remove the weight that was burning my torn leg. Bucking hard, I loosened the other tomcat’s hold, tearing him off, and tried to make a run for the far side of the Thunderpath, dodging blows as best I could. Goldenpelt snapped at my heels as I fled across the black rock, my ear tattered and trailing blood across my tracks. As I ran, I heard Ravenstorm yowl out a final, victorious warning:

"Don’t come back, foxheart! If you return, we'll kill you!"

I raced through the tangles of long grass, my legs and throat burning with exhaustion. I never was an endurance runner, only ever capable of short sprints before tiring and collapsing. My hind leg was stinging viciously from Ravenstorm’s strike, and Goldenpelt hadn’t helped matters. I was almost dragging the leg. The fight had sapped much of my strength already, and I wasn’t sure how long I could keep going.

After only a minute, I stumbled, falling and landing on my side with a grunt of pain. I closed my eyes as wave after wave of exhaustion and pain rolled over my body, my muscles cramping and twitching. All I wanted to do was let go of reality and sleep… but I couldn't sleep yet. I had to fight. I had to fight all of my enemies, defeat them before they could defeat me. That was the way of things, wasn’t it?

Still… I was out of MoorClan territory, right? I could sleep for a short moment... yes, sleep sounded good....

Eh, I'm not really a writer; I suck at creative writing. Too many problems with putting thoughts to paper, probably... and I keep (purposefully or not) drifting away from the original prompt. Everything begins to sound really crackfic-y when I'm around. Which is weird because I'm quite neurotic but everything sounds so lighthearted in my essays.